The termination process was chillingly smooth, like writing off a bad debt.

Obviously, in the precise algorithm of Moore Architects, my return on investment had peaked.

The boss, Morrison, sat behind that massive mahogany desk, pushing up his gold-rimmed glasses. He sounded like he was giving a closing argument in court:

"Layla, you have talent. But in this industry, you need a... 'killer instinct.' And you, you're too gentle."

He shrugged and gave a deeply insulting suggestion:

"However, since your theoretical foundation is solid, maybe you could apply for a part-time lecturer position at Parsons or Pratt? You know the saying: 'Those who can't do, teach.'"

I signed my name and wrote a check to pay off the so-called "training breach penalty."

As the pen lifted, the savings I had planned to use for a down payment on a studio apartment in Queens instantly hit zero.

When I walked out of the Midtown office building, twilight was falling.

The December wind in New York cut like a knife.

Fifth Avenue was in full Christmas mode. The light show on the facade of Saks Fifth Avenue was playing, giant snowflakes projected onto crystal lights. Tourists cheered.

Only I had nothing in this prosperous world.

My phone vibrated. An iMessage.

From: Grandpa.

"My granddaughter is amazing! I saw your name in the local paper again! 😊"

I stared at the screen, my eyes burning.

Grandpa was a first-generation immigrant who spent his life dealing with California sunshine and dirt.

He didn't know what a Pritzker Prize was, nor did he understand the "partnership system."

When I was in architecture school, he wore reading glasses to help me memorize vocabulary.

He always pronounced "Sustainability" as "Sustain-a-bubble."

And "Architecture" as "Art-lecture."

Over the years, I lied to him countless times: "I'll visit after this project," "The boss values me," "I'm doing great in New York."

I chased fame, awards, and Julian for six years... and ended up empty-handed.

Only he, in that small town near Napa Valley, kept a light on for me. I was his only pride.

I stood in the cold wind of Fifth Avenue, taking a deep breath of air mixed with the scent of roasted chestnuts and car exhaust.

Then I opened the United Airlines app.

JFK -> SFO.

Tomorrow morning, 6 AM.

One way.